Page 88 of Arrow

Her eyes glinted in the dim kitchen light. “Arrow doesn’t need to know it was me. Could’ve been anyone. Maybe you did it yourself. Wouldn’t be the first time a Virelli took the coward’s way out.”

Fucking bitch.

“I’m not a coward,” I hissed, my hands clenching into fists at my side.

“Then prove it.” She pressed the blade harder. “Fight back.”

I stayed silent. If she wanted to slit my throat, she wouldn’t get a scream out of me. I’d never give her or anyone else the satisfaction.

Natalya leaned forward, her lips against my ear, and whispered, “I’m going to bathe in your blood.”

What happened next surprised us both. Reaching my hand up, I grabbed her wrist, and pushed it away from my neck, while slamming the back of my head into her face.

There was a sharp crack as my skull made solid contact, and Natalya’s nose exploded—literally exploded—bright red blood dribbling down my shoulder as her grip on the knife faltered. I turned and snatched the blade from her.

My fingers closed over hers, knuckles grinding, and for one luminous second, we were cheek to cheek, breathing in the same air, hissing each other’s names with the intimacy of twin predators fighting for the last scrap of meat.

Her laugh came through the blood oozing down into her mouth.

“Not bad, bitch,” she slurred.

She spat blood onto the kitchen floor, and grinned at me, teeth red as Romanov rubies. “You broke it,” she said, half in awe, finger prodding tentatively at her mashed nose.

I pressed the tip of the knife to her belly, just above the waistband of her pajamas, thumb ready to finish the job. “It’s not your night, Natty.”

“I feel so alive,” she cooed, before she rushed both of us back, slamming me into the fridge hard.

The shelves inside rattled loudly, while my wrist slammed between her ribs. I kept the tip of the blade pressed against her stomach. A single inch would split her, but Natalya’s face was overwhelmed with wild glee, as if the prospect of getting gutted was the first good joke she’d heard since birth.

She kept laughing, even as blood and snot waterfalled down her chin. Her mouth opened in a red smile, and she cocked her head, twisting me further against the crisper drawer.

“Congratulations. You’re the only Virelli I ever liked,” she said, and then, without warning, head-butted me right back.

Stars.

Crackle.

The kitchen warped to a nebula of black and silver as cartilage and my forehead collided.

My vision filled with light and then drained in quick succession. Her weight bore down, and I stumbled onto the marble, my left ankle catching on the edge of the mat. The knife dove sideways, and for a split second, I thought she’d strip it from my hand. But I had the better grip and the bigger fucking chip on my shoulder.

We twisted to the ground, her thigh across my hips, faces so close I could smell the iron and citrus of her lotion. I brought my knee up, catching the point of her pelvic bone, and then rolled us both, pinning her between the refrigerator and the floor. I secured her wrist easily, knife at her throat, and held it there.

“Arrow’s going to be pissed,” I panted.

“He’ll get over it,” she hissed. “Go on, do it, Virelli whore. You won’t get the chance again.”

I could end her now, nick the artery, and paint the kitchen in a tribute to my fucking birthright. All it would cost is the part of myself that even Arrow hadn’t managed to kill yet. The moment stretched, doubled, and then—with what felt like the last muscle in my body—I let up pressure, just a fraction.

“You’re not worth the cleanup,” I muttered, but my voice wasn’t steady.

I pushed off her, hands splayed to keep her down until my body said run or die.

Natalya snorted, pushing herself up into a crouch, blood still streaming down her face. She wiped her nose on the hem of her sleeve, watching me with eyes that were predatory, almost loving.

The knife trembled in my grip before I slowly set it down on the counter. Natalya watched the motion, never flinching. I made for the stairs, but only halfway through the kitchen, she grabbed the knife and rushed me.

My body moved on muscle memory—sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her straight into the banister. The impact bought me seconds, giving me just enough time to reach the nearest weapon—a fucking rolling pin on the butcher block—and brought it down against her wrist with everything I had. The knife flew free and clattered across the floor.